


Should I Stay or Should I Go?

by cowboyfranche



Series: Shall we Play? [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Capes, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Identity Porn, Jason is a booktuber, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Tim is a Twitch streamer, neither of these things are very relevant to this part but I'd just like you to know, twitch streamer au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28704423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboyfranche/pseuds/cowboyfranche
Summary: In between streaming and a fierce online battle against the insufferable booktuber, RedHoodReads, Tim gets hired for a photography gig.As it turns out, he gets a little more than that, too.
Relationships: Stephanie Brown & Tim Drake, Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Series: Shall we Play? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104080
Comments: 17
Kudos: 109





	1. Chapter 1

**tim @redrobinstream • October 8**

**you guys know I can… see the things you post about me, right? like, I can see *all* of it.**

**tim @redrobinstream • October 8**

**i'm not shaming any of you but—actually, no. no i am. you deserve it. please stop posting gifsets of my ass on tumblr**

**Red Hood @redhoodreads • October 8**

**ignore op**

**tim @redrobinstream • October 8**

**you especially stay away from my ass**

**Red Hood @redhoodreads • October 8**

**@redrobinstream come on, babybird. don't be like that. sharing is caring :)**

**tim @redrobinstream • October 8**

**you're right! when the judge asks why I requested a restraining order, I'll share these tweets :)**

**Red Hood @redhoodreads • October 8**

**Damn, take a guy to dinner first. I can't say I mind the enthusiasm, though ;)**

* * *

"What about 'I'll tell you where to stick your enthusiasm,' or maybe, 'I'd rather skip to the part where we never talk again,' or maybe just 'I do'?" Tim asks, voice rumbling through the blanket of quiet that's fallen over the living room of his downtown apartment. Steph's hands carding through his hair don't arrest in their motion, but even from where Tim lays, head in her lap and legs dangling over the sofa's edge opposite to Steph, he can picture the look of mock decision on her face.

"Well," she answers, "the way you keep arguing like a married couple, I'd say you just skip to the last one and call it a day." 

Tim scowls, lowering his phone into his lap and peering up to properly glare at Steph. His hair scrunches up, and Steph lightly bats his temple. 

"Quit moving: you're messing up the braid." 

"I didn't _ask_ for the braid."

"Well, you're gettin' one." Steph pushes her bottom lip outward, blowing air upward to clear her own baby hairs from her eyes. "'Sides, this is the nicest french braid I've done since middle school, and I'm not letting you ruin this for me."

Tim rolls his eyes but abstains from moving any further. It's true that he hadn't requested for Steph to plait his hair into any elaborate sort of style, but he isn't complaining, either. The repetitive drag of her fingers through his hair is comforting, and his scalp is rarely shown any kind of detailed attention. The last time anything beyond his own brush had run through similarly was at the hair salon, and from the length of his current style, that had been months ago. So, for now, he'll take what he can get and bite down on any weak complaints. 

Steph's fingers brush a few loose strands from his cheek and he sighs quietly with the motion, exhaling while she tucks in the hair that will definitely not remain where she secures it. 

"I just feel bad that you're giving me your best braid effort when the rest of me is going to be wholly underwhelming," Tim comments after a minute, carefully walking the line between playfulness, praise, and acceptable self deprecation. It's a tenuous relationship of speech, especially considering his friends don't seem to enjoy any level of self deprecation from him. 

From Steph's slight tug on his hair, he's pushed it, but not tread too far astray. He'll take it.

"You think I'm gonna let you be underwhelming tonight wearing _my_ braid?" she retorts. "Repping _my_ brand? French Braids by Stephanie?" Even with the joking lilt in her voice, Tim knows she's dead set on steering him away from his typical bland wardrobe for these things. 

Luckily, his stubbornness serves him well, and he refuses to go down without a fight. "It's just a client. Probably just some old, shitty, white guy looking for me to take under-exposed photos of his 'immersive live music venue,'" he mutters, quoting over multiples of the emails he's received in the past year. It's an arduous slog nowadays to even trudge past the second paragraph. 

Steph's nose crinkles. "Fuck, why do you even consider these gigs?"

Tim pauses. There's not really a good answer—or at least one he's willing to give without drawing the worry of others. 

Why _has_ he met with numerous members of Gotham's sleaziest? Why does he subject himself to subject line after subject line of "Inquiry for Photographer," followed by promises of payment in "experience," or dubious links to addresses with a warning to "disregard the reviews," like he's supposed to ignore the urgent insistence of former patrons not to attend this establishment PLEASE for the love of GOD. 

Why does he even bother offering a free consult, or with the whole affair at all? If streaming is lucrative and he likes it well enough, why slum it in the Bowery, answering underpaid requests for someone who'll look the other way just enough to take photos of what's definitely a shabby front for a gang? It's not like he needs the money (sparse as it is), and it shouldn't be worth it to put himself in vulnerable positions just to make what's proportionate to pocket change when compared to his current income. So why bother? 

Tim asks himself as much—thinks about it during the quiet sanctity of the night while staring at his darkened bedroom walls. He _knows_ why, and he holds onto it, because sometimes it's all he has. In his brain, mouthed to himself, he can present his mapped out reasons as if they've been instilled like an old prayer—partially because they have. 

The first is simpler—less secretive. Should anyone ever truly question his motives in choosing the clientèle he does, he'd offer this up. 

He _likes_ that side of Gotham. 

Something about the sketchy, skeevy buzz of neon lights, boot-worn carpeting and peeling paint calls to his lens. It's a challenge to flatter such blatant hideousness, and it's even bolder to make no attempt at hiding it, but Tim is _good_ at what he does. He's taken the worst shit holes in the city and repurposed their image into something of novelty and charm.

In a way, that side of Gotham is all he's known, starting from his early days of sneaking around the edges of Crime Alley in hopes of capturing the real Gotham city life, and not just the touristic mirage pamphlets and travel blogs would rather have you believe. 

Even if he's no longer hidden behind the imposing stone structures of Gotham and instead invited into establishments that would put even _Pauli's_ to shame in terms of dinginess, it's still his Gotham. The city lights and underlying buzz of life below thick, layered grime immortalized reliably on his camera—a constant where he had none. And he refused to give that up. 

The second he'd less than openly confess; photography is the only thing that's ever been his. 

Don't get him wrong—he loves streaming. It's a dream to be able to do nothing but play games and perform the stupidest of tasks with his friends for a kind community he's built independently, but he hasn't worked for it in the way he has with his photography. Sure, he's logged more hours streaming and learning the ins and outs of a proper set-up, but he doesn't get the same rush of pride knowing how far he's come. 

He's not the scrawny nine year old with a clunky, outdated family polaroid scouring Gotham's rooftops for the perfect subject anymore. He knows how to line up a shot, how to adjust lighting and focus, timer settings, proper composition and contrast. He's made progress, and it's all a result of his own desire to improve. 

This isn't to say he doesn't still have the same nervous, excitable feeling towards it as that nine year old did; he's still just as much of a nerd and allegedly still twiggy if his friends' opinions are anything to go by. It's just—he's gotten to a place where he doesn't have to sneak around to do it, partially due to age and partially due to building pride and confidence in his work. He has people in his corner who trust and support him where his parents never would've. (Not that Jack and Janet would have appreciated their son's current online career either, Tim thinks bitterly). 

And lastly, why does he bother with it? Why not just cast it aside like his myriad of other hobbies, or relegate it to anonymous Instagram posts? 

And this, _this_ is what he can never tell anyone. For the sake of his own privacy, for the sake of his friends and family's hearts, and for the sake of Gotham. 

Recalling the look of tonight's client's...establishment, though, it's unlikely that will even be involved, so it's best not to consider it until the situation presents itself. After all, the best way to appear innocent is to _be_ innocent. This very well might be a completely mundane night consulting with another forgettable cad. Nothing more. 

Tim clears his throat. "I don't know," he shrugs diplomatically. 

Steph narrows her eyes, but the interrogative edge in them clears. "Fine. Keep your secrets." 

She plaits the final strands, wrapping a tie around the end with practiced movement. Her pat on his shoulder delivers a wordless permission to move, and finally he fits up, pulling his legs in from where they dangle over the sofa's arm. Leaning back into the cushion, he gingerly pats Steph's intertwined handiwork. The tucked pattern of pulled in pieces makes his head spin just thinking about it, and he just as quickly drops it. Steph looks at him expectantly. 

He raises his brow. "What?"

His response doesn't seem to thrill her. "What _are_ you gonna wear?" 

He almost escaped the question, but Steph's steel-trap, stubborn memory catches up quickly. Damn it. 

Preemptively, he winces. No matter how he says this, she's not going to be pleased. "I'll probably put on a hoodie. Maybe jeans?" 

Just as he expects, the look he gets is less than impressed. 

"A hoodie and _maybe_ jeans? With _my_ braid?" Steph crosses her arms, leaning back onto the sofa arm opposite his end. The line above her brow crinkles. 

"Jesus, Tim, I know you're trying to blend in to avoid being recognized, but you don't need to bust out the depression hoodie to do that." Her nose crinkles too, drawn up in thought. "Actually, I think that _increases_ the chance you'll be recognized. 

"Ha, ha," he sneers, but it lacks any real heat. If anyone's aware his wardrobe lacks in style, it's him. Maybe he's not sure how to remedy it, or even the exact weaknesses, but he's heard it from many sources. Repeatedly. 

Steph grins, crossing her arms behind her head with untampered joy at his irritation. The sleeves of her sweatshirt bunch up, equally as folded over as her oversized sweats. 

"Why is my hoodie so insulting, but you can wear that?" he argues, motioning over her smug posture. 

Steph rolls her eyes. "Because I'm not the one going out."

"I'm not going out." 

"You're not _going out_ going out, but you're leaving your apartment, and if I learned anything about Tim Drake from our _passionate_ five month affair, it's that, socially, you have to take what you can get," she reasons, and despite the jab at their ill-fated lavender relationship, Tim hates to admit that she might have a point. He really can't remember the last time he actually went out for non-work related purposes, or not just because a friend was in town. The closest he gets is with these side gigs, and even then, he's still technically working. But he doesn't need to let Steph have her satisfaction. She's smug as it is.

"I'm not dressing up for what'll probably be a 20 minute meeting with a dick whose offer I won't even accept," he deflects. 

"I'm just trying to seize a rare opportunity; are you gonna get in the way of that?" Steph levels, chin tucked down and eyes backlit with determination. 

Whatever. He's not backing down—not this time. Days of standing in as Steph's personal dress-up doll are long past. He'll his hoodie and jeans with pride, god damn it, and Steph has no power over hi—

* * *

Ten minutes finds Tim standing half naked in front of his bedroom mirror, silently cursing himself, Steph, and whatever ice-cold setting his thermostat must sit at for the apartment to feel this frigid. 

Goosebumps line his exposed skin, hair stood on end and pallor just as ghostly as ever. Squinting, he can almost imagine the figure staring back is a phantom, pale and lithe, wavering with his blurred vision. Some big shot media outlet had called him a "porcelain prince" a while ago. He doesn't really know how to feel about that, considering his pasty complexion derives from a vampiric avoidance of sunlight, but at least they didn't write another sensationalized depiction of his alleged _relations_ with fellow streamers. Being compared to royalty in this case doesn't seem all that unsavory. 

"Tim!" 

He blinks, vision pulling back into focus. 

"What?" 

Steph voice trails out from his closet. "What's the weather like?"

Turning to his bed, he plucks his phone from where it softly indents into his duvet. Unlocking it, he nearly taps on the weather app, but not before his eyes are drawn to another notification. Without thinking, he taps on it, opening up the accompanying app.

**Red Hood @redhoodreads • October 8**

**Sorry, baby—just realized I already have plans. Rain check? xoxo**

It's like the world freezes. He exhales hotly, his heart accelerating. The tips of his ears flush with anger. He stares at the screen, reading and rereading again the same message. Sent only minutes ago without a response prompting it. Disallowing him to retaliate. Not giving him the decency of even one word edgewise. 

"Tim!" 

His head snaps up. "What?"

"The _weather_!" 

He blinks again, slowly closing out Twitter. It's 55 degrees. He tells Steph as much. She mutters softly, still inside the closet, and it sounds something like "I can work with that," but Tim isn't straining to hear. No, there's more important matters at hand for him. 

That red hooded bastard. The maddening literature jerk that won't stay away, no matter how little Tim interacts with him. Initially, he just seemed like any low-life, small scale troll, making snide remarks and occasionally tweeting at him, but this guy is taking it farther than anticipated.

Comments on Tim's YouTube stream clips, his VOD channel, donations on stream, dms to his friends, mentions in the Red Hood's own videos, (not so) vague tweets alluding to Tim. And recently: whatever this is.

Distantly, a part of him recognizes how ill advised it would be to respond; it's not like he's blind to the concept of dismissing harassment. But with Hood, it just doesn't _work_. Tim could refuse to respond for a month straight, and still he might receive a cheeky comment reminding him of Hood's dedication to pissing him off. So why not just accept futility and take the opportunity to at least bite back? 

He's not _obsessed_. He just doesn't like being made to look foolish, that's all. Everything his friends say on the matter is just lies and deceit. His case for libel is mounting at this point.

**tim @redrobinstream • October 8**

**In your dreams, Hood.**

It's weak, but he's not going to exhaust his mental resources on this guy past the degree he already has. Plus, there's not much time before Steph returns to the room and catches him hunched over his phone again. At this rate, he's going to become the field mouse to Steph's Bunny Foo Foo when she catches him giving into Hood's taunts once again. 

Speaking of the devil, his ears perk upon hearing steps heading out of the closet, and he tosses his phone back on the bed. Steph comes out with a small stack of folded clothing, ignoring Tim in lieu of pushing the fabric into his arms. 

"I may have peaked here," she says, crossing her arms as if wonderstruck. "This is my masterpiece. Versace who? Calvin Klein _wishes_ he could. Vera Wang could never—"

Tim can't help but huff a laugh at her dramatics. "Do you know any other designers to keep this going, or am I permitted to change?"

Steph rocks back on her heels, pushing her cabin socks deep into his carpet. Briefly caught in thought, she returns with: "No, you can go." 

Tim laughs again, and Steph grins. He pads over into the bathroom, examining the material in his hands. Something stiffer, almost canvas like, something soft—cotton? And something unique that's either velour or velvet. The last is somewhat alarming, but Tim swallows back any hesitation as he places the clothes on the counter, shutting the door softly. 

He pulls out the cotton first because he recognizes them easily: boxer briefs. They're just plain black (the only patterned underwear he owns being a gift from Dick typically worn on laundry day). Maybe he should feel odd about his ex picking out his undergarments, but his relationship with Steph is far too lax to care about anything like that. They're too far gone for him to care what she has and hasn't seen. 

He slips them on easily enough, the band comfortably snug and adherent to his hips, then moves for the velvet next. Curiosity wins him over, and he can't help but satiate his need to figure out what Steph could have possibly pulled out for him. Undoubtedly, it's one of her own items of clothing left and shoved into his closet. He doesn't own anything made of material as interesting as this.

Sure enough, when he holds it out, it's a dark green, velvet top. It hangs from two thin straps with a square neckline, short enough he'd bet it's cropped. 

That's another thing (on top of Tim's many Things. They only seem to mount these days); Tim's testing out new waters. Nothing extreme, but just…testing. 

He's never had much freedom in self expression, let alone dress. As a kid, his parents molded him into the perfect little heir, impeccably dressed in Bristol rich kid attire. 

When his father died, leaving him to move under Bruce's care, he'd easily adopted a matured version of the same style that seemed to proceed with the name Wayne. Of course, Bruce had never set such expectations (as evidenced by Dick's rotating casual-chic wardrobe and occasional sequined, fringed eyesore), but Tim had wanted to represent the family well. 

And he had. Bruce often received a multitude of comments regarding his esteemed (then) youngest, who held himself with great poise and elegance most respectable of a boy his age. A sad part of him still preened under those meaningless compliments, but mostly he just felt relieved he hadn't brought any disgrace to the Wayne name. 

But Bruce was clever, and he must've seen something in the way Tim's shoulders never quite unstiffened in public, or how his grin was a little too tight, because he'd been brought into Bruce's study one night, sat before the concerned faces of Dick and Bruce, and gently interrogated into admitting he didn't want to be a liability or a disgrace to their name. He was met with a riotous response of validation and further concerns, Dick attempting an embrace so tight Tim suspected he might be trying to merge their bodies, and Bruce nearly twitching in confliction as to whether he should join or simply encourage and comfort from afar. 

By the end of that night, it had been assured to Tim that he was their family and in no way a burden. He didn't have to sacrifice his own freedom and happiness just to protect some boring, stiff, traditional appearance for the rest of the world. And, besides—Dick had caused more scandals by accident than Tim could ever start consciously. Anything Tim needed to feel comfortable wouldn't harm anything, and Bruce didn't want to see his children suffering just because they think it's what will make him happy. 

It started with streaming—something Tim had held off on agreeing to because he was too fearful of the public's reaction—and recently moved into other areas of life he'd never really considered. Dick and Steph mostly were the ones to encourage his fashion exploration, as mild as it was. Usually it was pretty tame—wearing graphic tees for public appearances, attending galas in anything other than the standard black suit, starting streams in his pajamas—but there were times when his family introduced items like this for him to try. 

The top slips on smoothly, the velvet brushing against his skin. Even though it's clearly Steph's and designed for someone with a bust, the square neck and tighter knit of the material clings to his lean figure well enough. 

Glancing over his reflection, he tugs on the pants next. A gentle cream color, baggy, and rolled up at the hem. They're comfortable and thankfully from his own closet. He'd bought them on an impulse while indulging in childhood skater boy dreams, yet had only worn them a few times since. They sit higher up on his hips, exposing only a thin line of skin below the top when he moves. 

Lastly, he holds up a jacket. It's a similar cream and also oversized, made of thick denim and with an assortment of pockets. The lining's soft and warm, good for chilly Gotham Octobers like these. He pulls it on, sleeves sticking half over his palms. Considering rolling them up, he decides to leave them for now. They'll keep his hands warm. 

A few steps backwards, and he can properly see the whole of what Steph chose. 

It looks… _nice_. He smooths down imaginary wrinkled on his pants, inhaling shallowly, exhaling as he continues to deliberate on a verdict. 

It's...different from what he would pick, but it's nice. It's comfortable, and only pushing on the boundaries of Tim Wardrobe Plausibility slightly, so it's acceptable. Plus, the jacket provides practicality in the weather and allows him to easily cover up in the likely case of stabbing self consciousness. 

Picking up his discarded sweats, he flicks off the light as he exits the room. When he re-enters the living room, Steph eagerly greets him with a gasp. 

"Tim! You look great!" she exclaims brightly, eyes aglow. "How do you like it?" 

The corners of his mouth tug up, and he tugs the lapels of his jacket sheepishly. "It's nice. Good job."

Steph climbs off the couch, walking over to fuss with Tim's outfit. Her hands smooth across the jacket, pulling the hem taut. 

"You like it?" 

He nods. "Yeah. It's a little different, but I think... it's good." 

Steph's face softens—"Yeah?—before taking on a wolfish edge—"'Cause you look hot."

Tim snorts. " _Sure_. I don't think I've ever been that in my life." 

He receives a wilting look in response. "Tim. Really." 

"What?" 

The manner in which Steph rolls her eyes is frankly overdramatic. "If you sold posters in your merch shop, teenagers would be kissing them nightly." She holds out her hands, motioning up his body. "You wear almost nothing but pajamas in the public eye and still get thirst edits tweeted at you hourly. People dm _me_ to try to get you to notice them." 

He frowns. "They really do that? That's so annoying. I'll tell them not to—" 

Steph groans, performing what looks like a chop to the air in frustration. "That's _so_ not the point!" 

"Then what is?" 

"You're hot and you should stop saying you aren't!" Still glaring, Steph pulls at her hoodie strings until only her face and a few wisps of trapped hair peek out. "Anyway, you can't argue that you aren't, because we dated, and you know that I'm not open to charity cases." 

He can't help but snort, causing the corner of Steph's mouth to pull up. 

"Okay, I'll surrender that point to you." 

"Good." Her fingers latch around the scrunched edges of the hood, loosening it once again. "Hey, wait; what's this place you're going to? I don't think I even asked what you're gonna be wasting this look on." 

Tim grabs his camera bag, picking it up from the oak side table adjacent to the armchair in the corner. "Oh, just another live music venue in the Bowery."

Steph whistles lowly. "The Bowery? You sure this isn't just an excuse to lure a skinny kid with a $5000 appliance and a fancy fucking lens to a shady little shack on the rough side of town?" Her brows furrow dubiously.

The armchair slides backward slightly, bumping the wall as he sits. He pulls open the bag, performing a cursory check of his equipment. "They looked sketchy at first, not having any pictures, but I asked around and they're legit. They just haven't been around long enough to get good shots, so they're looking to hire someone for it." 

"Huh," Steph says, "is this gonna be a cool venue, or another weird, 1920s wannabe lounge environment?" 

Tim shudders involuntarily at the mention of yet another past experience. He'd gotten out of that gig as soon as possible. "I don't think it'll be quite that bad, but I'm doubting it'll be all that contemporary. The guy that contacted me sounded like he's not a day over eighty." He zips the bag back up after checking off each required object, all neatly placed into separate pockets and compartments within the leather. 

"Oh? Well, maybe he's a sexy octogenarian. Don't be ageist," Steph mock-scolds while simultaneously wiggling her brows. 

Tim shakes his head, biting back the urge to gag. "No. He sounds more like one of the Wayne Ent. board members than anything. The way he signed off sounded just like them. First two initials, then last name. Who does that?" he questions, scrunching his nose.

Steph's disgust mirrors what he imagined his own to be. "What's this jerk's name, anyway?"

"I didn't recognize it," Tim starts, shouldering his zipped bag and pulling up his email, "so I doubt you will either." 

Steph drums her lap ceremoniously. "Hit me with it so I can rip this stuffy capitalist a new one." 

Tim laughs at that, because the guy's name really did sound like some robber baron if his memory serves him correctly; it's only fair to let Steph have a shot at him. He pauses, scrolling down to the bottom of the message. As expected, the name sits below an antiquated "cordially,"—part of what added to his suspicion this guy must be elevated in the age category in the first place. No one under the age of 65 closes an email with "cordially." 

Finally—there it is. Initials and all. He nearly groans at the sight of it.

"J. P. Todd," he reads. "What kind of name is that?" 


	2. Chapter 2

He leaves the apartment with plenty of time to spare, making Steph swear up and down she'll lock up before she leaves and giving his own promise not to get mugged and murdered in some dark corner. The reason as to why she insists on staying and making good use of her copy of Tim's key remains to be revealed, but he has a sinking suspicion it has something to do with whatever Steph's hiding in her bag and her sneaking said mystery objects onto hangers in his closet. 

She's a sprite of chaos, and the reason why his button ups are slowly being swallowed by eccentric patterns and stylings. 

Gotham's October chill blows breezily on his face, as if the city itself exhales in the evening, relieved to recede into the shadows. Tim himself exhales, free to the not-quite-silent buzz of the street lamps and chatter from the crooks and niches of the path approaching the Narrows. His apartment's situated a hop and a skip away from this place, but it's not enough to require any transport beyond his own feet. It's nostalgic wandering out here at night, anyway, and he doesn't mind the chill any more than he minds the potential that any second he could get jumped by any lingering thug. He supposes he really should mind either of those a bit more, but living for 19 solid years in Gotham's desensitized him.

Finally, he snakes through the recesses of the Narrows just enough to catch sight of the address listed by his potential employer. From what he can see, the building just looks like...a house. Then again, nearly every business besides the corner bodegas and intermittent gas station looks like a house with some type of signage in front, but this one lacks all signs entirely. If it weren't for the jaunty neon lights strung about the roofing and Christmas tree levels of limitations bleeding from every window, he'd think this really was an attempt to lure him into some shady den full of awaiting eyes who know a little too much about his activities. 

Instead, there's just the steady, quiet thrum of music, a few shouts from inside and a strange amount of electricity wrapped around the slightly rundown looking structure. 

Well, it's certainly not a gentleman's club. Tim can't tell if he's relieved or disappointed. 

(Relieved; any night where he doesn't have to spend the duration watching the owner uncomfortably flirt with his waitstaff is a good night to him). 

Cautiously, he navigates through the rusted front gate, peering curiously at the wild garden beds spotting the yard. Flowers, fruits and vegetables alike sprout up messily, tangling in a mess of dying brown brush. Tim swears he spots a pumpkin squished near the left of the siding. The overgrown yard must be a spectacle in the growing season, especially in a place like this, stuffed in the middle of grey Gotham concrete and run down apartments. The area could use a little life. 

By the time he reaches the front door, he has to brush off dried plant matter from his beaten high tops. It crunches under his toe, crisp and blending with the slight thrum of music he can hear through the door. 

Should he knock? If it were anywhere else, he wouldn't knock, but this place is far too...homelike for him to approach it as he normally would. The line between casual and professional blends here a little too much for his liking. He sighs, annoyed at his own apprehension. He'll just knock. At worst, he'll be courteous in excess, and that in itself wasn't a crime.

Before he can pick apart the shades of grey even further or even begin to raise his fist to the paint chipped door, fate decides his entrance for him. 

He can hardly blink before he barrels into an oncoming, solid chest—or rather, said chest barrels into him. The force of the collision knocks him off balance, and on instinct he clutches his camera bag rather than reaching to steady himself, leaving him to tumble backward, likely down the porch steps to certain doom. 

Fortunately, his assailant has half a mind to compensate where his own self preservation fails, and jerks him back up by the wrist onto his feet. 

"—shit, fuck,  _ shit _ !" 

Tim winces at the sharp tug on his forearm, then again at the curse biting right beside his ear. He steps back cautiously, just as the man before him does. A brief sense of whiplash rolls around his head, the blood fighting to settle back into place.

"Ah, sorry. I should've—uh." 

Ignoring the throb behind his eyes, Tim looks up—quite literally. 

Beyond his immediate field of vision flooded by the man's cotton clad chest, two ocean blue-green eyes gape down at him. 

They stare in silence, Tim anticipating the rest of the sentence, while the man seemingly forgets it, choosing instead to freeze in place and—by extension—freeze in his hold of Tim's wrist. His long fingers easily wrap around Tim's arm, continuing to hold him sturdily despite his regained balance. 

Shrinking under the sudden, intense stare, Tim decides to further the conversation on his own. 

"It's, um, okay." Meaningfully, he glances down at his wrist. 

Finally coming to his senses, the man drops Tim's wrist as if burnt. "Good," he mutters, before gathering himself. He adjusts his jacket, suddenly avoiding Tim's eyes at all costs. Under different circumstances, Tim would just sneak past, putting his small frame to good use while (politely) shoving past. Unfortunately, he's still blocking the doorway, making it impossible for Tim to ferret through, especially with the man's broad stature. 

And if broad isn't an apt term—

"If you'll excuse me," Tim says, gesturing at the door, silently pleading with the man to acquiesce. 

Luckily, something finally resonates, and he steps aside, offering Tim an open pathway to his desired destination. He doesn't add any further input on the situation, which Tim feels grateful for, already suffering the effects of their tense interaction as it is. 

Once inside, he's met with a face full of humid, hazy air, the kind one usually only finds in jam-packed clubs (not that Tim's been to many of those) or the Gotham market on a Sunday morning, which is curious, considering the venue is near empty. 

Aligning with Tim's earlier guesses, this place really does just look like someone's home. It's a little more worn in and decorated than your average rented abode, but the layout looks approximately the same. The front foyer area splits into a narrow hallway to the right of the door and what Tim guesses is intended to be a dining room to the, but is instead used as a sitting room, if the sofa peeking into view is anything to go by to the left. 

The interior is all rosy, lacquered, golden oak, a distinctly 90s look to match the hordes of posters and stickers plastered across every surface. Some definitely belong to bands (some Tim recognizes, even), some are movies and TV series, and some—strangely enough—are from classic novels and plays. Most notably is a Shakespeare in Robinson Park  _ Hamlet _ poster outlined by multiple playbills, one torn in the corner in such a way that almost resembles a bite mark.

There's a few painting prints tossed in there too, but none Tim can easily identify. Random graffitied writings scrawl across the mixed wall collage, even trailing over onto the bare spots lacking coverage. Red paint peeks out from those areas, a bright bloody hue blazing boldly that brings out the warmth of the wood even more than the lighting already does. 

Which brings him to the lights; Tim doesn't think he's ever seen this many fairy lights outside of holiday decor. They line the upper crown moulding, trailing down into the hallway, wrap around the staircase and up the posts, outlining a very pointed "VISITORS STAY OUT, TRESPASSERS GET FUCKED!" sign above the closed door at the top. 

Tim suddenly feels very small. He clutches onto his camera bag strap.

Swallowing his discomfort, he opts to follow the lights down the hallway, identifying the source of music and faint voices as coming from that direction. 

The hall opens into a living room space, decorated by random equipment and wires, and store-brand pop cans placed throughout, and dozens of tiny, origami paper cranes, and two mismatched sofas, and three chairs (one of which is entirely wooden and definitely meant to sit in a kitchen), and a coffee table strewn with self-made magazines and tinsel, and a half dozen house plants, some lining the bay window sill and one planted inside a plastic cowboy hat. It smells like stale air, mothballs, and cheap air freshener, the third of which Tim spots squeezed between the sofa and the wall, next to yet another door, this one slightly ajar and leaking music that blares into his eardrums, suddenly making him wish he had been informed enough to have thought to bring earplugs. A cool draft ghosts over his neck, sending a shiver down his spine, and he suspects the window latch to be a bit faulty, especially considering its worn look and collection of scratches littered all over. He averts his eyes, looking past the sun room entrance in front of him and instead looking toward the doorway to his right. 

The voices and music flood into his ears a bit louder, and he pushes onward into the kitchen. It's a strange, wooden number, rosier than the rest of the house's interior with a small island in the middle, topped by a laminate countertop. An assortment of chip bags and snack boxes litter the area, punctuated by red solo cups that run the gamut from empty to full. A radio buzzes in the corner, faintly playing what sounds like classical music, but it's too low to determine exactly.

Leant against the far counter, two people chat animatedly, only spotting Tim in the doorway when they break for laughter. 

The taller of the two, a lanky, slouched women with electric lime hair and smudged eyeliner, looks at him curiously. 

"Uh, hey, we're not open yet for the night," she say, "gig starts at ten." Her shorter companion, a plain looking man with dark hair and tan skin frowns at him. 

"Oh, I'm actually here to meet with the owner?" Tim pulls his camera bag upward, pointing with his opposite hand in an effort to signal his intentions. 

The man's mouth morphs into an "o." "You're the photographer!" he exclaims, before smacking his forehead with his palm. "Yeah, you came at a bad time. The boss just stepped out."

Tim bites his cheek, holding back the immediate annoyance that flows into his tongue. They'd agreed on a set time to meet, and Tim is nothing but punctual. For the novelty, he checks his phone anyway. Nine fifteen, on the dot. He stares at his phone, then at the two before him pointedly.

"Do you have an idea of when he'll step back in?" he asks, not impolitely, but he wishes it was. 

The green haired girl shrugs, but then looks more thoughtful. "I think he was just checking on the siding or something."

The guy nods sagaciously. "Blows off sometimes."

_ Something the siding and your boss seem to have in common, then _ is what Tim almost says, but he's not there to make enemies (at least, not on purpose). Instead, he says: "I'll just wait in front until he's back, then." 

Before he can really wait for their reply, he turns and heads back down the hallway, intent on catching the elusive Mr. J. P. Todd as he re-enters his own place of business. It's not actually that egregious for the guy to be a few minutes late, especially considering it sounds like he's just responsibly surveying the structure of his property. Then again, the omission of a proper description of what Tim was walking into in their email correspondence annoys him, and the fact that the guy's not even here to greet him only furthers the sentiment. 

He plants himself in front of the stairs, facing directly toward the front door. As long as the man enters through this entrance and not a more hidden, back way, he won't be able to evade Tim. Although, considering his projected age, Tim wouldn't be surprised if his cataracts blind him to the befuddled photographer standing in his foyer. 

Tim stands for five minutes, shifting from foot to foot. In that time, he covers a good portion of the wall's reading material, catalogues a strange gash in the wooden door frame into his archive of features making this place more mysterious, and realizes that this night will probably be fairly mundane after all. 

At the end of five minutes, he decides to succumb to sitting on the second step of the stairs, drawing his phone from his jacket pocket and opening his stream analytics. He may as well take this time he's unable to do his work to do other work. The stream's been picking up steam lately, and he wants to keep the momentum going. He's been at a stable level of viewership and income for a while now, but that doesn't mean he can afford to plateau. Plateaus just mean you're one bad move away from spiraling downward and falling flat on your face. He doesn't  _ want _ to plateau, anyway; he likes the growth of his community. Of course, it means decreasing personal privacy and an overhaul of dms in his inbox on every social media platform, but he's still anonymous enough in the general public to carry on with side gigs like this, and that's all that matters. 

He's almost surprised at the lack of notifications from Red Hood. The man's oddly quiet, typically responding back to him in a flash with another disturbing, deluded comment to rattle Tim's last nerve. Tim almost wonders what the man could be up to that's keeping him off social media, but then he remembers he shouldn't— _ doesn't _ care, and moves his attention back to his analytics. 

After another couple minutes of reading, analyzing and planning, the door creaks back open, blowing inward with the October Gotham breeze. In it, outlined in the pitch black by the porch light, steps a man Tim takes a moment to recognize as the guy from before. 

Sitting directly opposite and no longer colliding, Tim can better see him. He's tall and broad, just as Tim observed before, but he's fit, too, body tightly defined by muscle. 

Tim meets his eyes, greeted once again with a sea-green hue that sends a spark down his spine with their intensity. They're framed by a squared jaw, smattering of freckles and dark hair that could either be a dark brown or black, perhaps depending on lighting. Interestingly, though, white streaks the front pieces of his hair, curling gently inward on his forehead. It's an unusual contrast that further fuels his curiosity toward the stranger, trim figure and all.

Tim can't decide if this guy would belong better as the center of an ESPN body issue centerfold or on the cover of a harlequin novel, draped by a swooning paramour that Tim oddly enough begins to imagine with features strangely similar to his own. 

He snaps his mouth shut preemptively before he starts to drool.

Unfortunately, there's little time to moon over a passerby who likely just wants to get back to work. Tim has to return to his own duty of waiting on the antiquated relic that must be J. P. Todd, whose lateness increasingly irritates Tim. Now 9:40, the man is 10 minutes late to what should be a very brief consultation at an hour inconvenient for Tim. From all that he's learned between being raised as a Drake heir and then falling under the name Wayne, this is poor business practice. Mindless (at least publicly) CEOs like Bruce can afford to stumble into boardrooms because it's assured they'll still have the rest of Gotham at their beck and call. But small time guys like this can't expect an outcome like that. 

Mentally, he begins to draft a terse email detailing his grievances and arrives already at his proposal for an improvement in conduct just as the man closes the door, finally taking notice of Tim sitting in the stairwell. 

He doesn't startle, to his credit, merely smoothing out the wrinkle in his brow to instead shoot Tim a grin. 

"You must be Tim Drake."

Tim, to his  _ own _ credit, doesn't startle. He's nearly immune to attractive people thanks to the oversaturation of them within his own social circles. Of course, none of those people are strangers who surprisingly know his name. 

"I am," he replies. "And you're…?"

The man offers his hand, and Tim takes it, grasping it until he's standing, then lightening his hold as it morphs into a handshake. 

(It strikes him that this is the second time this stranger's pulled him around like his weight means nothing. Something sizzles in his brain at the thought).

"Jason Todd, nice to meet you."

Tim blinks. 

"Jason—" he starts, before cutting himself off. "J. P. Todd?" 

A revolted look flits over the man's— _ Jason's _ —face at the mention. 

"Fucking—sorry. My  _ associates _ think it's hilarious to fuck with my email," he scowls momentarily. "It's just Jason," he clarifies, and Tim wishes that fact had come way sooner. 

Tim fights a frown, remembering the way his potential client fled past him earlier, apparently running out on the set time of their appointment. 

Jason must be reading his mind, because has the decency to look guilty. "Sorry I'm late. I had to check on something. I hope it wasn't too troublesome for you." 

Tim shakes his head. "It's fine, don't worry about it." It's not fine, and Tim  _ does _ want Jason to worry about it, but luckily he feels gracious tonight. Plus, it's easier if relations stay genial. 

Jason rests one hand in his jacket pocket, pointing with the other toward the front sitting area. "We ain't exactly got an office, so how's about we talk in here?" 

Tim's eyes flit to the doorway he guessed to be a sitting room earlier. The couch still peeks out into his view.

"Alright." 

They file into the room, Jason permitting Tim to step inside first—a last ditch effort towards chivalry that makes Tim covertly wrinkle his nose.

Tim places himself in the corner armchair, poised on the edge so as to avoid being swallowed by the reclined backing. There’d be nothing more humiliating than having to shimmy his way back up and off his seat after concluding their consultation just to be able to reach Jason’s hand. 

Jason sits on the couch perpendicular to Tim, spine far less tensed that Tim's, instead spread out comfortably, elbow propped on the backing casually. 

"So, I gotta admit I don't know much about this stuff, so you'll have to start," Jason cedes, which Tim appreciates. Too often does he fight to get a word in edgewise against clients who have broad visions of unrealistic grandeur. 

"I think," Tim responds, "we should start with your expectations." 

"What do you mean by that?" Jason asks. His curiosity travels from the light tone in his voice to the crease in his raised brow. Tim finds it hard not to abandon all annoyances he has against the man, distracted by the rakish look about him, then becomes annoyed again, simply by the fact that Jason Todd is hard to hold a grudge against. 

"What do you want as the outcome of this? Are you looking for something that captures the image of the building as well as the activity inside, or just a select few suited to display your—" Tim hesitates "—business most appropriately?" 

Jason scrubs a hand over his lips. "I guess the former. I'd like to have pictures we can just kinda use to show what this place looks like, but I also want some pictures of the gigs, too." He breaks into a brief chuckle, almost as an afterthought. "And I don't exactly think I'd call what we do here a business. Don't think it falls under the criteria."

Tim can't help it; he feels his brow furrow. "Why not?" 

"We don't actually turn a profit," the man begins to explain. "All the money raised from gigs goes toward the house residents, and any excess after that goes toward Gotham charities."

His explanation only further foments Tim's lack of restraint when it comes to mystery. 

"Who manages the upkeep of the house, then?" In other words,  _ where are the funds for this place coming from?  _

Jason doesn't frown, but the line of his mouth tightens enough to mimic the ghost of one. "Myself and a buddy of mine." In other words,  _ butt out. _

Maybe there's more here than initially Tim thought.

He takes the cue, steering the conversation back to calmer waters. "You mentioned residents?" 

Tim doesn't notice the tightness in Jason's posture until the tension in it eases. "Ah, yeah. Gigs in the basement, ladies upstairs. He motions over to the doorway, in the general direction of the stairs. "There's three rooms upstairs that we open to women we hear need a place to stay. Sometimes they stay for a week, sometimes six months," he shrugs. "Doesn't matter, but we take care of them while they're here. Just ask that they don't use while they're here, and that they don't mind the gigs downstairs, but we've soundproofed pretty tightly anyway."

"Those are the only stipulations?" Tim asks.

"Yeah. No drugs, no fighting with the other ladies. S'about it. We're understanding about the former, though." 

_ Understanding,  _ Tim thinks. That could mean anything, and few of those anythings were things Tim understood. Moving from Drake to Wayne hadn't allowed him to know anything about that world. Classmates might've spread whispers of pills and weed and whatever else rich kids did when they needed to check out, but that isn't the same world. Sure, sneaking around Gotham streets at night gave him a knowledge of it, but that knowledge was only voyeuristic and laced into the surface of his mind. He took pictures to understand Gotham, stealing a bit of its visage every time, but he never got more than that—a picture. Always a watcher, never one to experience, to  _ know _ . 

Right now, knees knocked together while perched on a beat up recliner diagonal to Jason Todd, Tim feels more like a watcher than he ever has. 

"The gigs?" he asks, because that's what he feels most informed about. He's been all over Gotham to photograph its club scene, snap pictures of bar singers and dining room entertainment. He's never been somewhere so... rough and unpolished, but he can derive the basics. 

"The idea was to open up a gig venue for punk and rock bands that couldn't find anywhere to play otherwise, but we've got a whole bunch of different people play in here. D—" he cuts off, frowns like he knows the slip will only toss kindling toward Tim's growing curiosity, and corrects, "—my buddy's step mom's more of a jazz singer. She's been here a few times." 

"I've heard it called the Park Row Punk House, though. Is that still mainly what plays here?" It's only one of a host of names Tim's heard the house go by, none of them particularly seeming to pick up more traction than the others besides this. 

Jason nods, face reset into neutral courtesy. "Yeah. Why, you into punk?"

It's obvious he's joking, what with Tim looking like a prep boy in over his head even with Steph's fashionable guidance, but Tim revels in his truthful response of "yes." He  _ does  _ listen to punk! Just because it's easier to envision him on a tennis court than in a mosh pit doesn't mean he's oblivious to the alternative scene. 

Jason blinks, then barks out a surprised noise, halfway between a laugh and a scoff. "Really? What are you into?" 

"The Clash..." Tim starts, then stops realizing he has nothing more to say. His music's heavier on synth than guitar and not what he'd call punk. He can't name any other bands to falsify his taste, either, so he just stalls in silence.

"The Clash," Jason repeats slowly after a moment, smirking, and Tim balances once again precariously between wanting to roll his eyes and to stare deeply into the other man's own. 

"Yes. The Clash." 

Decently, Jason backs away from Tim's assertion laced with cold humiliation, shifting the conversation back to business. One hand shoves into his jacket, the other still remaining outstretched on the top of the sofa.

"How much for a session?" 

Tim doesn't flinch. "One thousand." 

Jason whistles lowly, hand drumming on top of the upholstered fabric. 

"That's standard?" 

"It'll get me for four and a half hours; enough to shoot both the house and the gigs if you time it correctly." Jason won't be the first to undermine Tim's pricing. In fact, nearly every time he consults with a client does he get requests for discounts despite the fact he charges average rates, especially for what he provides. He raises his brow, daring the expected follow-up. 

"I just think it's funny that there're ladies down the street making double what you are in the same amount of time." 

Well. It's not what he anticipated—not that he lets it show, crafting a careful expression of neutrality imparted upon him by one Janet Drake. 

"Well, I'm certainly wearing more clothes," he blurts without thinking.

The light catches in Jason's eye, a hundred little fairy lights twinkling like sun on the sea on a summer's day. He grins slyly. 

"You certainly are." 

* * *

Negotiations proceed strangely, with Jason insisting he pay Tim double his standard rate, and Tim refusing such a steep price for what's essentially the most underground version of Gotham's not-for-profits. No one's ever asked to pay him more, only ever desiring an attempt at insulting exploitation. It could just be a cheap way to try to apologize for knocking Tim over and then the subsequent instance of lateness, but something feels too genuine about the way Jason fights him on it. 

Jason's insistent, fierce, perhaps even pigheaded, but Tim matches him just as well. One thousand five hundred falls between them as the signed and set contract, and Tim realizes almost immediately after that Jason had never even requested to see a sample, let alone Tim's portfolio. 

"So," Jason begins, once settled, "what happens now?" 

_ What  _ does _ happen now? _ Tim thinks. He's usually ushered away at this point, or flat out ignored by his client until he gets the hint to scamper out, camera bag in hand. But Jason just threw the ball into his court, just about handing the thing to Tim directly. What does he  _ want _ to happen now? 

"Could I take a look at the basement?" a voice says, and he feels foolish that it takes him a second to recognize it's his own. 

Jason shifts in his seat. "Uh, yeah. Sure." He pulls his hand from his pocket, dragging his phone out with it. His eyes browse over the screen quickly before he curses. "Shit. It's 9:57." He glances back up at Tim, mouth flattened into a hard line. "I didn't even notice anyone come in." 

"Neither had I," Tim admits. Now that he's tuned into his surroundings after seemingly tuning out, he can easily hear the chatter swimming around the house with bursts of music pooling in errant waves. How had he missed all these people arriving?

Jason goes to stand, and Tim takes the cue to rise as well and is smacked with the reminder of Jason's towering stature, Tim only meeting his shoulder. Jason ruffles the back of his hair, taking wavy locks between his fingers. 

"I can take you downstairs, but it's gonna be loud, dark and packed. I dunno if that's ideal for scouting it out, though." He looks directly to Tim, waiting for his decision. 

Jason's not entirely wrong; trying to squeeze downstairs right now probably will be less useful than if he had set up and waited for the crowd to flood in beforehand, but something still compels him toward the basement. After all, he's heard about the alleged gigs multiple times at this point with no actual evidence. For all he knows, they might not even exist. This could just all have been an elaborate plot to lure him down, rob him blind and leave him for dead. 

Glancing back around at the framed hornet cross stitch squeezed between collages of concert tickets proclaiming "bee kind or else!", Tim doubts that possibility, but he can't know for certain unless he goes through with it. So he may as well.

"Alright. If you wouldn't mind."

"I wouldn't."

"Alright." 

"Good."

A dreamy silence falls between them, like snow in a forest. Two immovable trees faced toward each other, neither showing any sign of life until, inevitably, a crash breaks the blanketed quiet, snapping the trance. 

"For Christ's—" Jason swears in the direction of the doorway, "they're always throwing shit around."

"Your employees?" Tim asks, remembering the characters in the kitchen. 

Jason laughs, corners of his mouth pushing into dimples. "Employees? Nah, they're all volunteers. No one on any payroll. They're happy enough being paid in pizza and signed community service forms." He motions Tim forward, once again chivalrous, but Tim replies with his own mirrored motion. 

"After you." 

Jason flashes him a look of amusement, before starting out of the room. 

Inside the kitchen and living room, only a few clusters of people crowd, signature red cups in hand, engrossed in conversation with boldly dressed peers. Jason and Tim's arrival doesn't seem to foment any kind of special attention, unusual for an owner of an underground place like this. They easily weave their way to the basement door, now wide open and administering a mixture of croaky bass and whining guitar into the space upstairs. 

Stepping into the basement stairwell, he notes the trail of lights continuing downward, these ones colored in contrast to the plain white up above. They switch slothfully between purples and blues and reds and greens, casting colorful shadows on the bodies below. 

The air downstairs hits like a wall, smothering like a thin cloth over the mouth and humid too. The instinct to pull off his jacket follows only seconds later, but he decides against unzipping it beyond a few inches quite yet. He clutches close his camera bag, envisioning exactly how he'll lose his way sardine-squished between the exuberant punks dancing along to the amplified shout-singing from the small, painted plywood stage off in the far corner. Tim can hardly even tell who's playing beyond the fact that there are at least three members of the band, somewhere between the ages of 16 and 50. From his viewpoint on the stairs, he feels like Noah on the ark looking down below as the world fills with water. 

It's claustrophobia inducing. It's probably a capacity violation. It's a wonder they don't receive noise complaints each night.

It's mesmerizing. 

A little Gothamite zoo, full of Bowery bottom feeders letting loose in a dimly lit, overcrowded basement with blaring music. The number of ripped posters, beaten-to-hell couches, stains on the floor and assorted litter makes upstairs look like Versailles; down here is its own little crooked kingdom, dingy and hazy. 

It's exactly what Tim is looking for, and exactly how he wants to capture his city. 

He'd turn back now and tell Jason he's already got what he's needed just looking, but all he's done is watch. What he needs is to experience first hand.

Stepping carefully over discarded flyers and paper plates, he continues down the steps until he meets the ground. Jason shuffles back into his view a second later, creating a barrier between Tim and the imposing beginnings of the thick of the crowd. 

"It's a lot busier tonight than I thought it'd be. You sure you don't wanna turn back?" he asks, with all the concern of a mother watching her toddler scale an unscaleable object. 

Tim shakes his head. "No, thank you. I'm fine." 

Jason regards him warily for a moment, before shrugging. He jerks his shoulder backward. "It'll be better if we get closer. Stick close. Wouldn't want you getting swept away," he says, shouting over the music's pulsing volume.

Tim narrows his eyes, unappreciative of Jason's implication. He can hold his own, thank you very much. Even though most people admittedly tower over him, he has agility to spare and can easily find his way through a crowd. And with someone of Jason's size—build reminiscent of a defenseman—he won't have to do much plowing through of his own.

Jason smirks, and Tim wishes he could reach up and smack the smugness off his face, but he remembers that Jason is paying him a considerable sum of money for his work, and also that it would be a shame for someone with cheekbones like that to be struck. 

Dutifully, he follows behind the man, elbowing past gyrating bodies and dodging sloshing drinks. It's slightly more difficult to keep his lens and camera out of harm's way, but Jason himself is still the biggest threat he's encountered to them tonight—an action he hasn't made mention of since. What could have him rushing out of his own property that quickly? Especially when he had a scheduled meeting shortly after. Jason doesn't seem like the type to keep people waiting or enjoy inconveniencing others. If Tim knows his type from their albeit brief interactions, he's an asshole, but not like that. 

They push through the crowd in record time, and Tim catches the stage and it's performing artists. The thrum of the drums and baseline from the amps vibrates and ricochets within his chest, seeping into the cement floor below. 

Before he can get any closer, though, an incoming body jostles him from his thoughts. 

The guy—the size would typically indicate a guy—pummels into him too quickly and with too much weight for Tim to avoid the collision. Luckily, he's able to plant his feet and avoid knocking onto his ass a second time in the night, but the movement still jars him. 

"Hey! Watch where you're going!" the guy says, and Tim gets a better look at him. Sneering, average height, heavier set, shaved head, dazed look indicating some type of intoxication. He's mad. 

Before Tim can get a word in edgewise or decide to ignore the jab, Jason beats him to it, shooting a dirty look directly at the man from over his shoulder. 

"Alright, fuck off, pal. You're the asshole stumblin' on his fuckin' feet," he spits, Bowery accent now dripping from each syllable like straight venom. 

Tim looks back at the man. 

He's  _ mad _ . He's enraged, even. And once again—too late—Tim notices that he's about to take a swing.

Apparently Jason's too slow to intervene, or just caught off guard by the forwardness of the man, but either way, the man's knuckles smash into Tim's face, striking his cheek, eye, nose, and partially against his mouth in one fell swoop. For the second time that night, Tim tumbles flat onto his ass, camera both fortunately and unfortunately following the momentum straight into his stomach and not onto the floor. He catches himself with his hands before completing planting downward, wrist twinging slightly with the force of the movement. 

On instinct, Tim reaches to paw at the impact site like a wounded animal, but the hot swell of blood and pricks of pain erupting from the brush of his fingers makes him flinch back. Caught in a limbo between touching and not touching his freshly, assumedly bruised face and uncertain of what else to do, Tim looks up.

The man above him looks self righteous, face contorted in an ugly grin Tim would glare something fierce at if his body's blood volume hadn't begun to suddenly pool into his head and begin to pitter patter onto his hands through his nose. Appropriately, the lights strung about transition into a blazing red.

Behind him, though, Jason has fully turned, now staring the guy's head down with the fury of a demon. Tim notes absentmindedly that he must not have heard Jason warn him in the first place, and then notes more presently that that was probably a dire mistake. 

Before Tim can even blink, Jason whales onto the guy, cleanly smashing his face in with brute force and prowess abound. The move looks practiced, and Tim wouldn't be surprised to find old scars overlain across Jason's knuckles upon close inspection. The punch sends the man swiftly downward, like a soda can shot off a fence. 

"What the  _ fuck _ do you think you're fucking doing? You think you're a big fucking man for smacking around a kid?" Jason growls viciously, raised voice attracting the attention of those around even over the volume of the band. From behind him, Tim feels someone pull upward on his jacket, forcing him to his feet, and he thinks he hears himself mutter a "thanks," but he's too focused on Jason to be sure.

"Get the fuck out, asshole," spits out, the man on the ground beginning to come to his senses moaning. Jason shows no sign of sympathy, though, and Tim is just surprised he's allowing him to regain consciousness at all. 

Jason reaches down, plucking the man's jacket lapel and hoisting him upward like a ragdoll. The man yelps, hissing in pain. "I don't want to see your ugly ass mug anywhere near here again, and if I hear you've even so much as passed by our sidewalk, we're gonna have a problem. Got it?" 

Before the man can even answer, or grovel, or beg, or sob, Jason's shoving him off and away, letting the bystanders deal with him. It's not long before they catch their wits and begin to whale on the guy, tossing him toward a storm door opening. 

The people behind Tim keep a firm grip on his collar, keeping his wobbly knees upright until Jason reaches him. In an instant, warm hands are guiding him to their original destination only a couple yards away. Without dithering, Jason passes Tim around in his hands, hoisting him up and onto the stage's edge.

"Holy  _ shit,  _ you're light," he exclaims under his breath, and Tim pointedly does  _ not _ shiver from the brush of his exhale across his neck, opting to focus on the rush of blood from his nose now pooling inside his cupped hands. Never mind the ignominious fact his feet don't even touch the ground."You got hollow bones, baby bird?"

He sets Tim down proper, and Tim finally gets a good look at the man for the first time since they arrived at the foot of the stairs. He combs his hand through his hair, running methodically over that grey-white streak and brushing over neatly shaven sides. Under the now-purple light, all reddened brutality slackens until it melts, replaced with guilt and something Tim almost dares to read as concern. 

"Jesus Christ. Shit. All over your jacket," he swears over the music, and Tim stupidly glances down. There's a thin trickle of red-violet running down the coat Steph picked out for him that only thickens as gravity increases the flow of fluid from Tim's nose. He tips his head back once he realizes. A second later, Jason catches his wrist. 

"Lemme get a look at that?" he asks, but Tim knows he only refrains from demanding out of courtesy. Tim complies easily, pulling his hands out of the way, head still tilted backward. 

Jason's hand on his wrist releases, only to join his other to hold either side of Tim's face. He tilts it downward more than Tim prefers, causing more blood to leak, but Jason seems too focused gently turning Tim's head back and forth. He peers at the sides of his nose, catching Tim's eyes a couple times. Were he not recently struck, maybe Tim would find some shame in his unwavering contact with Jason's eyes, but his head feels hazy and he can't find it in him. 

After a moment, Jason releases his hold on his face, patting Tim's arm firmly. "Doesn't look broken to me, but we should get a better look and fix it up," he suggests. Tim takes his word, easily believing Jason's authority on the matter after witnessing his practiced form in clipping the guy earlier. 

When Tim doesn't respond, Jason's brow turns downward. "Hey, you're hearing me, right? That fucker didn't concuss you, did he?" 

Tim moves his hands away from his mouth. "Don't think so. Just don't want blood in my mouth," he says tightly, trying not to move his lips.

Jason peers at what Tim's uncovered and winces. "Sorry, I didn't realize. I think your lip's cut, too. Hold tight for a sec." 

He ducks off to the side for a moment, leaving Tim to sit, head throbbing with every shriek of the amp only feet away. It makes sense that his lip was cut, though. The guy was wearing a ring, and Tim thought he felt it split into him. It's just a shame that this was the night Steph chose for him to wear white. Even Alfred might only be able to restore the coat to a light pink spotted pattern at best.

Behind him, the band doesn't seem all that alarmed, as if lost souls sitting within proximity to their performance is barely something to blink at. Here, it just might be, Tim thinks. 

Jason pops back into view shortly after, with what looks like tissues in hand. He offers it to Tim, and Tim realizes what he's holding is actually gauze. Without opening his mouth, he tries to convey his confusion. 

Luckily, Jason understands. "We get a lot of punks knocking heads on accident." 

Tim nods minutely, pressing the gauze liberally to the lower half of his face. Once he's got it semi secured, Jason pulls him down off the stage, setting him back on the ground. He keeps his hand on Tim's shoulder, steering him back toward the stairs even more swiftly than their journey into the crowd. What Jason's face must look like for the typically unaware gig-goers to part like the Red Sea, Tim can only imagine. 

Soon enough, they arrive back upstairs at the basement entrance. It's far quieter up here, especially when Jason closes the door behind Tim. The man walks a few steps until he stands before Tim, then shrugs toward the front foyer. 

"You can get cleaned up upstairs. Wash some of the blood off, at least." 

Tim nods once again, and follows Jason to the front door and up the upper set of stairs. The sign once again proclaims boldly against trespassers, and Tim worries minutely that the women of the Park Row Punkhouse might not want some scrawny kid with a camera to bleed all over their bathroom, but Jason doesn't seem concerned, so he perishes the thought as the door unlocks. 

A short hallway sits perpendicular to the doorframe, several doors meeting Tim's gaze. In contrast to the house's first floor's decor, the second floor looks neater, more polished. The only thing remarkable about the doors is the nameplates on each, one decorated with stick-on jewels, the others plain. A fourth door, slightly ajar, reveals a sliver of what must be the bathroom, an uncommonly pristine looking area, with an air freshener Tim can catch the scent of even through layers of gauze. 

Jason pushes the door open, flicking on the light switch. The silence of the hall allows Tim to fully recognize the throbbing in his skull, and he wishes the women behind the doors casting illuminated slivers onto the hall rug would start making noise to distract. 

"If you step in here, I got a washcloth you can use," Jason says, shuffling out of the way so Tim can step in front of the bathroom mirror. Tim enters the small space, edging between the mirror and where Jason stands by the bathtub. 

The reflection that meets him is still the same, weary looking 19 year old that stepped out of his apartment earlier this evening, but in all sorts of disarray. His hair sticks wildly out of Steph's braid, and once he removes the gauze, he can see the bruises and blood smeared across his eyes, cheeks, and mouth. For a drunken bastard, that guy got Tim good. 

Jason leaves while Tim examines his face, returning with said washcloth he had mentioned. Tim takes it, wetting it under the tap.

"So," Jason begins, clearing his throat. Tim shoots him a withering look. "I wanna…apologize. I wouldn't have taken you down if I knew you were gonna get decked immediately. Swear to God that doesn't usually happen."

Smudging some of the blood imminently traveling between his lips off, Tim finally feels comfortable enough to speak.

"It's not your fault. Putting a bunch of drunken punks together in one room is bound to result in some casualties. I'm an easy target," he says casually. He really doesn't blame Jason; that guy was an asshole, and it's not like you can control whether or not your patrons are assholes.

"We don't actually sell any booze. Doesn't stop pieces of work like that from showing up hammered, though." 

That's odd. "No alcohol?" Tim asks before thinking. "Why?" 

Jason's jaw tightens, and Tim watches his shifting discomfort through the mirror. 

"My buddy doesn't drink. We didn't want this to be a place where people did. Turns out most people don't actually care in this scene." 

Tim begins to consider pursuing a further line of questioning, pulled by the desire to know more about this mysterious  _ buddy _ , but Jason cuts in before he can ask. 

"Hey, how'd you get here?"

Tim sniffs, then grimaces at the metallic scent overwhelming his senses and the soreness overtaking the lower half of his face. "I walked."

"Walked?" Jason echoes, looking surprised. "No ride? Not even the subway?"

Tim shakes his head. 

"Let me give you a ride, then. Least I can do, right?"

Tim considers the offer, eyes flicking up to Jason in the mirror. After a moment, he says carefully: "I think I'll be fine." 

Jason chuckles. "You're a stubborn bastard, anyone ever tell you that?" 

"No," he replies, face neutral. Jason stares at him for a second, before the corner of his mouth traitorously turns up, and Jason laughs again. 

"See? Bastard." 

Tim doesn't repress his smile this time. 

"Seriously, though, you can't just walk out on the street right now," Jason says, returning to the matter at hand. "If you were anyone else, I'd say the blood would tell people not to fuck with you, but you're uh…"

"I'm what?" Tim glances back at Jason, gingerly dragging the cloth under his nose. It comes back red, spotted with dried and rehydrated blood alike. 

"Small," Jason answers, drawing Tim from his speculation. The word falls from his mouth like second nature. "Fuckin' tiny, actually." 

There's something heavy in the way Jason looks at him, and Tim shrinks back under the weight. Jason's not wrong; looking between the two of them in the mirror, it's clear how Jason towers above him, shoulders broad compared to Tim's smaller, slighter frame. Something—sudden nerves, maybe—pools in his gut. A little spark lights up his spine, and he nearly twitches from the sensation. Suddenly feeling like a plot of land being surveyed, or a portrait on a museum wall, he mutters a sardonic, "Gee, thanks."

As if rudely awoken, Jason blinks, then shifts somewhat awkwardly. It's almost funny to see the human equivalent of a brick wall stumble, but Tim's too focused on surviving this transaction to comment much on the humor. "Fuck, uh. Sorry," said brick wall apologizes. "You're holding a big ticket item too, so that puts you at risk. Blood, big camera, easy target." 

Tim glances down at his camera, then tugs the bag off, pulling the strap over his head and placing it on the counter. He's not exactly wrong; it'd be stupid to walk all the way back home like this. His jacket's spattered with blood, his camera is easily visible against his white jacket, and he doesn't look the most imposing. 

"If it's not too much trouble," he says.

Jason grins rakishly, and Tim ducks his head, avoiding the way the bathroom lighting makes his face glow, blood flooding back into his face, but not through his nose this time. 

"It's not, I just hope you don't mind riding on a bike." 

Tim perks at that. "Not at all. I have a bike myself." 

Jason crosses his arms, raising a brow. "Really? What model?"

"Ducati Panigale V4," he answers. 

Jason whistles lowly. "Flashy." He gestures to himself. "Red Yamaha MT-09," he responds in kind.

Tim makes a noise of acknowledgement, and sets down the washcloth, finally clear of blood and at the end of the steady red trickle down his face. 

"Hey," Jason says, "you want a change of clothes? I got something you can borrow. Dunno how well it'll fit, but it's better than having blood all over you." 

Tim looks down at his clothing, before making a decision. "Yes, thank you. That'd be nice," he responds. 

"Right, I'll be back," Jason says, and leaves the bathroom, turning out into the hall.

Tim faces himself in the mirror once again. Finally alone, he sighs. This night has turned up with mixed results. He's exhausted, and his face is only growing sorer and more bruised by the minute, but he's also gained a client tonight. He's met the elusive J.P.— _ Jason _ —Todd, and found a perfect candidate to add to his portfolio. Even though his time down in the basement of the Park Row Punkhouse had been minimal, he'd felt electric. The characters attending that crowd combined with the lighting would allow for some great shots, and it was hard to deny that it'd be fun capturing them.

He unzips his jacket fully, now committing to shrugging the garment off. The temperature up here is far more bearable than in the gig's den, but he's still warm. Once again, he's left staring at the slinky velvet Steph picked for him. Hopefully Jason won't be too put off. Knowing the work he does and the people this place attracts, it seems unlikely Jason's prone to judgement, but one never knows. Especially with his repetitive usage of 'buddy.' No non-straight man has ever referred to his friend exclusively as "my buddy." Then again, the way he looks at Tim definitely doesn't scream heterosexual. He's certainly not going to ask.

After a second thought, he loosens the plait from his hair, too. It'll be annoying when Jason drives him back to the apartment, but he can just shove it back into a ponytail then. The tightly woven strands hang loosely, combed free by deft fingers until they once again frame his face.

Footsteps patter back down the hallway, and Tim looks back to the doorway, expecting Jason. Instead, a new figure enters his field of vision.

She's taller than he is, which isn't much of an accomplishment, but still notable. Long, dark braids trail past her high cheekbones and square jaw, leading his eyes to a very bright velour loungewear set. 

"Hello there," she says, voice deep and smooth, but with a playful lilt. 

"Hello," Tim greets, feeling somewhere between a kid at a cookie jar and a cornered mouse. 

"And who might you be, standing in my bathroom?" 

"Tim Drake. I'm a photographer hired by J—Mr. Todd."

The woman's expression lightens at the mention of Jason, and Tim notices that it had been darkened at all in the first place. 

"Oh, you're that big shot Jay mentioned."

Tim frowns, not appreciating the terminology. "I'm not—" 

"Oh," the woman laughs, waving him off, "no, I just mean he was excited. Talking up a whole storm about you."

Tim's words catch in his throat, his face flushing once again. 

"He didn't mention you were pretty, though. Now I see why he was talking so much," she adds, winking. It feels like something Tim should laugh at, but his head is still spinning. It's not an issue, though, because the woman laughs at her own joke, flipping her braids over her shoulder. 

"Say, you look familiar," she suddenly remarks, in a tone that's all too telling.

On instinct, Tim blanches, stiffening. "Maybe we've met before." It's a dumb excuse, but she might take it.

The woman laughs again. "No, I don't think so. You do videos, right? Streaming?" 

Tim opens his mouth to deny it, but realizes it's futile. "Yes," he says

The woman looks pleased. "I knew it! I knew I recognized you. Don't worry, though. I'm not gonna tell anybody. It was just bothering me. I know how private you stars are," she promised, sending a wave of relief through Tim.

"Thank you," he says, meaning it. 

She leans against the doorway a moment, still smiling, before startling. "Oh! I didn't introduce myself. My name is Satine, very nice to meet you, Mr. Drake."

"Nice to meet you, too," he says reflexively. "But just Tim is fine," he adds a moment later. 

Satine grins. "Tim. Wonderful." 

Tim doesn't know what to say, standing there under Satine's watchful gaze. She reminds him a bit of the Cheshire Cat, standing over Alice in amusement. Both of them break their gaze when something ruffles down the hall.

Satine stares back at him, face gaining a more serious edge. "Jay'll be back in a second, so I just wanna tell you something, Tim." 

Tim waits for her to begin for a second, before noticing she's waiting for his response, like she needs a confirmation he's actually listening before she continues. Curious, he nods. "Yes?"

She stands a little straighter, still leant against the doorway. "Listen, our boy Jay? He's a sweetheart. Little rough 'round the edges, but it's nothing a little love won't fix," she says this slyly, and Tim has to look away under her knowing gaze.

When he glances back up, her smile has taken on a sadder edge. "He's hurt bad, though, in more ways than one. That streak on his head? Ain't bleached, and there ain't many nice ways to get something like that, if you know what I'm sayin'.'" 

Tim hums a noise of acknowledgement. He'd gathered as much. It didn't look dyed, and seemed more likely to be a result of some kind of head trauma, especially after seeing Jason in a fight.

After a beat of silence hangs, full and thoughtful, she finishes: "Be gentle with him."

Tim, unsure of what to say and unable to trust his mouth, simply nods once again. 

After a few moments, and once he feels that he won't speak up with something traitorous, he taps his cheek."I, uh, like the gold." 

"Pardon me?" Satine says, face drawn in confusion.

"The—" he taps once again, unsure of the word.

"Oh! My highlight. You like that?" she asks. 

He assures her he does, and she smiles. 

"So do I. If you come back sometime when that face's healed up, I could put some on you, do your makeup anytime, baby."

Tim flushes once again, reddening with the honesty of her reply. Makeup is something he's nearly tried before, but Steph always gets mad at how quickly he ends up rubbing his eyes and looking like a raccoon, so most attempts are short lived. 

Before Tim gives an answer, another voice cuts in. "No one's doing anyone's makeup. Tim's got to get home, and we've already kept him long enough." 

Satine looks back at Jason standing behind her, then moves out of the way for Jason to hand Tim what looks like sweats he's gathered as a change of clothes. "C'mon, Jay, don't you think baby'd look good with a little sparkle on him?"

" _ Tim _ , Satine. He's got a name, so I don't know what you're calling him baby for," he says pointedly.

All Satine does is give him a fawning look, like Tim is a little china doll on a shelf. "'cause he's small like one, and awful cute, too. And he's pretty, don't ya think?" she asks, elbowing Jason.

Jason begins to roll his eyes, then abruptly aborts his reaction as he takes in Tim's appearance. 

"Told you," Satine mumbles, then slinks away, looking all too gleeful. Not that Tim or Jason notice.

"You took off your jacket," Jason observes. His expression looks tight.

"Yes. My jacket had blood on it," Tim says slowly, reminding Jason the reason he left the room in the first place. Jason's eyes roam over his shoulders, past the thin straps of the velvet top, down, down, down to the strip of exposed skin above his zip and—

"Right," Jason responds, then coughs. "Yeah. Here's a sweatshirt and sweatpants. The sweatshirt's mine, the pants are from Marta. She, uh, looks about your size," he finishes in a tone that Tim would call awkward, if he were brave enough to call a man who could toss him around like a wiffle ball awkward.

"I'm going to pretend Marta is a female bodybuilder, and that we're the same size because she's muscular and well above average height and weight," Tim jokes, trying to lighten the suddenly tense atmosphere that's settled between them since Jason walked back in. 

Jason's eyes still remain on Tim for a second longer, the same heaviness from before present once again, before he snaps back, moving out of the doorway. "I'll leave you to change. I'll get a bag for your clothes. We can go afterward."

Tim agrees, and Jason shuts the door behind him. Even though he's just begun to undress, he felt far more naked with Jason's eyes on him. 

* * *

Tim changes quickly, shedding off his bloodied clothes, once again annoyed by the fact that they had been bloodied in the first place. Hopefully Steph wouldn't get too pissed. That guy already got knocked around by Jason; he didn't need Steph at his door smashing in his teeth, too. 

The sweatpants end up fitting well, but the sweatshirt is baggy. He's not surprised, nor is he unhappy. The looser fit of the top is comforting, and the light, clean scent of detergent is pleasant to smell.

He exits the bathroom, finding Jason absent from the hall. Assuming the man must've left to wait in the foyer, he leaves the hallway, closing the door at the top of the stairs behind him.

Proving his assumption correct, Jason idles at the bottom of the stairs, tapping at his phone. He's probably notifying the staffers tonight of his departure. When he notices Tim, he pockets the device back into his deep brown leather jacket. 

"Ready to go?"

Tim pats his camera bag. "Yep."

"Let's go, then." Jason holds open the front door, letting Tim step out onto the porch. 

The night air seeps into his bones almost immediately, and he dreads how it's going to whip up into the hem of the sweatshirt and across his back. Before he takes another step, though, something drapes over his shoulders. He looks back at Jason, who's illuminated by the porch light above. 

"I thought you might want to borrow a spare jacket. It'll be hell riding in just a sweatshirt." 

Clearly he must be reading Tim's mind, and he's never been so glad for a telepath before. He almost thanks Jason mentally, before he realizes saying so in audible words will be far more effective. Jason just grunts. 

"I've ridden in the winter without one before, and it's shitty enough to make you not want to ride again until spring." His face is that of a man who's been through a war, and Tim heeds his word. 

They walk over to a modest garage, separate from the house but tucked closely to its side. Jason enters, then exits with a red bike Tim guesses is the Yamaha. It's a solid looking ride and not hard on the eyes whatsoever. Of course, he still prefers his Ducati in all its beauty, but he can respect this. Tim says as much, which causes Jason to smirk.

Jason passes him a helmet, which he gratefully accepts. It's a little difficult to put on, what with Jason's jacket swamping him and making movement difficult and his tender face making any contact with the helmet send a dull ache across it, but he manages. He gives Jason his address, and before long, he's sitting behind him, bike nearing the road. 

"You good back there?" Jason asks over his shoulder. From behind and in dim light, his body forms strong, solid lines, emphasizing his build. His shoulders flex under his jacket's leather, shifting as he places his hands on the handles. 

"I'm good," Tim affirms. 

"Hold on tight, then," Jason says. Tim hesitantly wraps his arms around the man's middle, before holding more firmly as Jason begins to pull out onto the street. 

It's not a long ride—or at least it shouldn't be. But with the feeling of Jason's core flexing beneath his fingertips and the growing desire to place his head onto the other man's back, time seems to pass as an eternity. 

He hasn't even known Jason for a full day. Technically, he's corresponded with him over email for a week, but their first meeting in person and real conversation was merely hours ago. For some reason, it's hard to reconcile the fact that they've only been in contact for such a short time with the feeling that they've known each other for much longer. Jason feels so familiar, their banter and rhythm together easily falling into place. 

Here he is riding on Jason's bike, wearing borrowed clothes, and he doesn't even know the man's favorite color. 

It's ridiculous to think about, but he still feels like he knows him.

Tim's seen Jason's hands, now gripping the handles of his bike firmly, expressing a multitude of emotions purely through movement. From catching Tim before he tumbled down the porch steps, to decking Tim's assailant in the face on instinct, to plucking him easily off the ground and onto the stage like he weighed nothing, to the way he ever so gently brushed his hands over Tim's cheeks, checking for injury with tender attentiveness. 

And then there was the mystery surrounding the man. Far less sinister looking than most of Tim's clients, but a mystery nonetheless. 

The vague explanation as to where he receives the money to fund the house and the lack of a name when discussing his friend qualify as red flags for further investigation. Part of him wants to trust in Jason's character, but the cynical Gothamite in him knows he can't exempt Jason from his critical eye. Whatever he finds, hopefully it's not too sour. Otherwise, he'd have to stuff his burgeoning attraction somewhere far away, and with the way relations look so far, it won't be a menial task.

Eventually, the passage of Gotham skyscrapers and office buildings becomes familiar, and Tim spots his apartment building with ease. Jason pulls up to the curb, slowing to a stop. He let's Tim off first, and the smaller man does so, stepping onto the sidewalk pavement. Gently, he removes his helmet so as to not jar his nose or lip, handing it to Jason who does the same. 

They stand there, Tim on the sidewalk and Jason in front of his bike, looking at each other under the streetlamp's glow. Tim smiles softly, and Jason mirrors his expression.

"I'll email you with dates for a session, and we can work out details." 

Tim pauses, considering. "No."

Jason furrows his brows. "No?"

Tim can't help but laugh quietly at his confusion. "No, you should text me." 

Jason breaks back into a grin. "Yeah? Forgive me if I'm mistaken, but I don't think I have your number." 

"I'll have to give it to you, then." 

Jason pulls out his phone, passing it to Tim, whose palm is outstretched. Tim types in his contact info quickly, hesitating over the top boxes, before adding the final line of information. He hands it back to Jason, who accepts it. 

Jason peers down at the screen, before laughing. " _ Stubborn Bastard _ , huh?"

Tim nods coyly, eyes rife with mischief. "It's what you know me by. A calling card." 

Jason places his phone back into his pocket once again, popping the clasp shut. "I guess so." He stares at his hands a moment, before looking back up. "Hey, I have a question." 

"Yeah?" 

"What happens if I text you and it's  _ not _ to work out details?" His eyes meet Tim's directly, pooling with something heady.

"Well," Tim reasons slowly, "you didn't specify what details you meant when I agreed to our arrangement. They could be details of any sort." He brushes his hair back, tucking a piece behind his ear carefully.

It's stupid. He hasn't vetted Jason, and it's undeniable he's hiding something. Plus, Tim doesn't get involved with clients. 

One look at the way Jason's eyes darken at Tim's implication, though, and he perishes the thought. He's  _ fucked _ . 

Another blanket of silence falls between them, but it's no snow shower. It warms something in Tim's blood, like ash raining from the sky.

"I have one more question," Jason husks after a beat, slicing through swiftly.

"Shoot," Tim says, voice hoarse in a way he hardly recognizes. 

But Jason offers no verbalization. Instead, he moves toward Tim, deliberate in the darkness. With the length of his stride, it only takes a few steps to reach Tim, enveloped in his sweatshirt and his jacket, swallowed by his scent. Those hands which tilted Tim's head so gently now hold his face with a featherlight grasp. Thumbs run over his cheekbones just as lips brush his own, soft and scarcely there, avoiding placing any pressure on where they had split. 

It's brief, but Tim's heart still flutters like a hummingbird's wings in his chest. He feels weak, knees threatening to wobble and give out at the slightest push, like even the feeblest breeze could knock him out.

After a moment, Jason pulls back, Tim attempting to follow his lips, before realizing the absence. By the time Tim opens his eyes and looks over, Jason's back on his bike, replacing his helmet. Tim only catches a sliver of his face, observation inhibited, but he cannot mistake the dimple of freckled cheeks and a flash of straight, white teeth.

"Goodnight, Tim," Tim thinks Jason says, but it's just as likely he imagines it. 

With the start of his ignition, Jason pulls away, revving his Yamaha and speeding off toward Park Row, leaving Tim in a daze, eyes still half lidded and mouth parted. 

It takes Tim another minute to come back to his body, gather his surroundings. When he finally returns to himself on the sidewalk in front of his apartment building he wraps the leather jacket around himself a little tighter in the midst of the cool Gotham air. As he heads back toward the building door, all he can think about is Jason Todd, and how he's going to explain the bruises on his face to his stream. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is a reworked version of another fic I posted from Cate (@siusyutlei) and I's Streamer Tim au. It ended up being more compelling as a Jaytim series, and I've been writing it over the past few months. If it seems familiar, that's why! You don't need to read the first part, but it gives context and world builds a bit.  
> *  
> title comes from the Clash's famous song of the same name. Tim canonically listens to them, and I like them, so I had to :P Also PS i'm sorry i know nothing about basement gigs or photography. im just a wee child and claim no knowledge. thank you for pardoning me in advance
> 
> next part will be from jason's pov...oooooooh


End file.
